


Buried our differences out in the yard

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 05:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: When the shrill ring of the phone resounded around the room, when muscles seized, lungs stopped, and everyone froze, Liz knew that the next moment they had alone, when they were safe and there were no needles threatening to pierce the delicate tissue of the inside of Red’s arm, she would tell him.It was me, I betrayed you.I know you’re not my father.I love you.Takes place immediately after Episode 12, Season 6.





	Buried our differences out in the yard

**Author's Note:**

> “You made me dance in the kitchen with you,  
> If I was the night then you were the moon,  
> Expectation is the currency of fools,  
> I spent it on you, I spent it on you.” – Kitchen, Tow’rs

It is silent here, in this cabin. The wood creaks, the birds sing, and on occasion the wind will howl, on other’s it will whisper. Noise pollution is minimal, the cacophony of sound that ricocheted off the concrete walls of Washington, the steady hum of conversation, the drone of traffic, had been left behind. It is just the cabin that sits here, a mile from the closest road, with the trees and bumblebees for company.

It is peaceful here, in this cabin. When there is talk, it is gentle, _soft_. War does not ravage its walls, does not seep into the surroundings, doesn’t burrow into the furniture, doesn’t turn the mood _stale_ or tense. There is a yellow blanket draped over the worn, cracking, leather of the couch, and it shields its users from the chill, the nightmares, that cling to them in the dark of night. A record player sits in the corner, aged and _loved_ , a crystal decanter beside it, nursing an amber liquid.

She sits on their little couch, nestled amongst the blanket with a cup of tea in hand, watching him bustle around the kitchen. The evening light filters through the stardust that twinkles around them, bathes him with _gold_ as he sprinkles thyme into the coq au vin. His features are lax, _soft_ , even with the slight crease in his brow, as he recalls the recipe.

The jet had carried them far.

She had stood across the road from him, her cheeks aching with her smile as he approached, her body _sagging_ with release as he enveloped her, tucking her close and _safe_. He’d pointed to the sky, to Polaris, and that was the moment she decided, gazing at his elated expression, the sparkle in the meadow of his eyes, that they needed to flee, if only for a few weeks, to escape the ever evolving, the constant current of The Blacklist. There was much to discuss, the topics filling her with dread, curdling her bloodstream, drying her mouth.

 _I love you_.

But even with the panic bubbling within, tightening her muscles, it was nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the panic, the _terror_ , that had _screamed_ within as she stared at him through that glass pane, watched the stillness of his body as the restraints lashed across his flesh held him in place, tampered down a man of _life_ and _movement_ as death creeped into the corners of the room, as death filled the vial. He had stared at her then, had gazed across an impassable chasm and though he’d looked at peace, Liz had felt a _riot_ breakout across her skin, adrenaline tingling in her fingertips, lungs livid with anxiety.

When the shrill ring of the phone resounded around the room, when muscles seized, lungs stopped, and everyone _froze_ , Liz _knew_ that the next moment they had alone, when they were safe and there were no needles threatening to pierce the delicate tissue of the inside of Red’s arm, she would tell him.

 _It was me, I betrayed you_.

 _I know you’re not my father_.

 _I love you_.

He had readily agreed to an escape, to whisk her away to the woods and the wilderness. With haste, they descended upon the Post Office, reunited with the team, eager to make their appearances and then _vanish_. Liz had been loath to let Red out of her sights, something fierce and _possessive_ taking root within her chest. Her fingers had twitched as Ressler stood before her, had questioned her with a knowing smirk splayed across his freckled features.

“Whatever happened to telling him you knew he was an imposter?”

Like a lance, it had pierced her, the _panic_ , because once she was to confront him, once his best kept secret were to fall between her lips into the cold harsh world, a plethora of options would cascade around them, new dangers, new _chances_.

And once they were soaring above the countryside, when he had poured celebratory drinks and went to pass her a tumbler, his own raised towards his lips, she had snagged the crystal from his grasp, her gaze flittering away from his concerned frown to alight upon Dembe, who stared out the window, headphones in and miles away.

Allowing hesitation to worm its way into her mindset, to make her second guess herself, was not an option. Elizabeth Keen grit her teeth, smothered all emotion, _anger_ and _fear_ , and _remorse_ , and met his green gaze. She met the gaze of a man who had cloaked himself in mystery and deceit, a man who loved her, cherished her, and breathed in.

Elizabeth Keen met the gaze of Raymond Reddington and cleaved his world apart.

“I know you’re not my father.”

“I know Raymond Reddington _was_ my father.”

“I am the one who betrayed you.”

His face had been impassive, tongue lolling along the top of his teeth, the tick in his cheek jerking to life. Steadily he had watched her, his eyes drifting to her hands wringed together in her lap, her knuckles white, as she stumbled over apologies and explanations alike. He remained silent, and once she had shuddered to a stop, her quickened breaths the only sound over the roar of the engine, the cabin deathly quiet, he reached forward, grabbed his scotch from where she had placed it before her and took a sip of the amber liquid, his eyes slipping closed.

When he spoke, his voice was rough and low, choked with an emotion Liz wasn’t quite able to place. The fury she had expected, the vehemence she had come to expect from him regarding betrayal was absent. He looked at her and smiled, a sad _aching_ smile, like he’d always _known_.

The flight was long. Liz wasn’t sure where they were running to, but she was eternally grateful as they skated through the clouds and night for hours on end that they had the chance to talk, were confined to the jet, lavish and with no escape. Not all answers were given, satisfaction wasn’t particularly reached, but Liz had accepted from the moment she stepped into his cell, that the answers she was searching for, could wait for decades, providing Red was by her side for them.

Her declaration went undiscussed.

 _I love you_.

But Red hadn’t said it back, and Liz, even with the adrenaline still savagely carving through her bloodstream didn’t have the courage to murmur it again. Didn’t have the courage to crack open her chest cavity and expose herself in such a vulnerable way.

And then when they had arrived at the cabin, when Red had said everything he was willing to say, and Liz bit at her tongue, swallowed back her questions and decided to _leave it be_ , they fell into a simple domesticity. Food was cooked and wine sipped, music played, fires stoked. Liz and Red simply lived, reminiscent of their time on the run, but _safe_.

She sat on this couch and watched the sunlight dapple the timber floorboards, listened to him fossick and hum to the music that crooned around them, and knew that for now, the questions could wait, that perhaps when they ventured back to Washington, she would press him harder, but for now, Elizabeth Keen knew only _peace_.

His gaze flickered over to her, rested softly on her features as he offered her a smile, _warm_ and gentle, as he was wont to do these past few days. Moving over to her, bowls in hand and the meal within steaming, she shuffled across the couch, swept back the blanket to tuck around him as he joined her, the leather creaking beneath his weight and careful not to knock the glass of red wine resting on the floor. Taking the bowl from him with a gracious smile, fingertips grazing his own as a blush crept up her neck, his green gaze lingered upon her.

“This is delicious,” she murmurs, tucking her toes beneath his thighs and wriggling into the arm of the couch.

“Yes,” he chuckles, his eyes still as bright as the night he had escaped, “Definitely not cabbage soup and dressed herring.”

Her soft laughter peels through the space between them, and she can’t help the fondness that leaks into her expression, paints the blue of her eyes with the passion of the ocean. Red must notice, for it is now he who looks away, clears his throat and takes a sip of the red wine that had been resting by his ankle.

 _I love you_.

They fall into silence once more, it’s comfortable and common, their thoughts drifting. The scrape of their spoons fills the quiet, and soon, Red is grabbing her dish, stacking it within his own and setting it down on the floor between them. And then he is shifting, his arm splaying out along the back of the couch, the white material of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders and bicep.

“I think I could stay here forever,” Liz murmurs, gaze drawn to the hearth, feeling her eyes glaze over as she stares into the flames, focuses on the heat of Red’s legs seeping into the tips of her toes.

Sadness seems to flitter across his expression, a weariness that clings to him, pulls at the soft swell of his lips, at the corner of his eyes. His thumb is rubbing up and down upon the leather, catching on the cracked caverns that have developed with age. Part of her wants to reach up and grasp at his hand, feel his fingers link with hers as she stills the nervous movement, rids him of the electricity tormenting his soul. She wants to study the golden hair flecked across bronzed skin, the hairline scars left behind from his battles.

She keeps her hands to herself.

“We can’t,” he murmurs, his voice is the deep rumble of the wind, a wind that roars through forests, tears timber from soil, the thunder born from the song of canopies.

With her tongue gliding across the back of her teeth, her eyes drift, along with her mind, until they both rest on him, on the way his face is angled towards the ceiling, as if forever drawn to the inky darkness outside; the night sky dancing with the moon, tangled in the depth of the universe, a splash of silver against the vast unknown.

Another secret is nestled in the corner of her mouth, tucked away safe and secure, a secret she wants to press to the soft pink of his lips, wants to whisper against his breath.

If Polaris is his way home, if he is chasing stars, and striving for salvation, then Elizabeth Keen has found a home in his beating heart and the gentle caress of his hands.

“For now, though, Lizzie,” he says, turning to her with a small smile, “We have this.”

A pause.

 _Eons_.

It passes with the creak of the cabin, the crackle of the fire, the whisper of the wind outside. It passes with Red, expression serene, his lip caught between his teeth, studying her. His eyes are hooded, the green shielded with content; a lion warm and soft beneath the afternoon sun. She has seen him like this on several occasions, tranquil, _calm_ , without danger clawing up his spine. There is no blood tarnishing his consciousness, death isn’t lurking in the jade of his irises, this is Raymond Reddington as he watches Elizabeth Keen, his breaths slow, lips quirked with fondness.

“Dance with me.”

A whisper, a _tease_ , there is humour sparkling in his eyes, familiarity in the tilt of his jaw.

 _Tell me my profile_.

Without thought she follows him, finds her hand slotted in his grasp, the blanket falling away from the both of them as they stand, the yellow puddling at their feet as if they stood amongst a field of canola. The smile that is blooming across her features, causing her cheeks to ache, she cannot help. He has manoeuvred them into the middle of the living room, the timber creaking beneath their weight.

“Shall you lead?” She teases, delighting in the rumble of laughter deep within his chest, can feel it beneath her palm, splayed as it is over his dress shirt, his _heart_.

Dancing with Raymond Reddington is very much the same as everything else he approaches in life. It is unapologetic, it is _flawless_ , the weight of his hand on her lower back an anchor, the _heat_ of it driving her to the point of distraction. Their clothes rustle against each other, the fabrics brushing with what seems like _promise_ , and Liz can feel the puffs of his breath against her collarbone, Red’s head angled down towards her neck. She can see that his eyes are closed, golden lashes splayed against his cheekbone. She tightens her grip, steps impossibly closer, rests her forehead against his shoulder and _breathes_.

Elizabeth Keen can sometimes forget how to breathe.

The record player spins on, and for a time, Liz’s mind is peacefully blank. It is just she and Red, tucked away in this quiet part of the world, tucked away in each other’s embrace, with only the moon to watch down on them.

“Red.”

She doesn’t know why she says it, doesn’t know why she brings them to a stop, takes a step away from him. His eyes are open now, questioning, waiting.

 _I love you_.

“This is lovely,” she comments, smoothing her hands down the plane of his chest purely because she can, purely because if she continues to meet his gaze it may drive her to insanity, “But, do you think we could play something a bit more… upbeat?”

The grin that splays over his features, _delight_ riddled through the crow’s feet that crinkle at the corners of his eyes, makes warmth bloom in her chest. His laughter is sharp and surprised as he drops his hand from her waist, releases her palm with fingertips that trace along her own until the grip is no more, and moves towards the vinyl collection, flicking through each volume with precision, lips caught between his teeth as he concentrates.

Liz could study him for eternity, the slope of his shoulders, the strength of his arms, the way his left foot angles out as he crouches, favouring the opposite leg. She wonders what caused it, an old sporting injury, naval training, whether it had occurred before or after he delved into the decrepit criminal underworld. Perhaps it is merely age, a force not even _the great Raymond Reddington_ can best. Too soon he is distracting her from her musings, dragging her up from her thoughts as he stands, lithe and spritely, as if his leg had never pained him at all.

Ever a contradiction, this man.

The music begins to play, and Liz can barely contain the _joy_ that swells within at the grin she receives, his eyes sparkling as he moves to join her, just the two of them pressed chest to chest in the middle of the living room. It is an old favourite of hers, information she is certain he gleaned from Sam over the years, had perhaps heard her blaring it throughout the household as he and Sam quietly murmured to each other on the landline: Moondance, composed by Van Morrison.

Her laughter filters around them, his grip tight as he spins them across the living room, steps sure and confident as the timber creaks from below. Liz is mostly focussed on avoiding the tips of his toes, untangling her legs and feeling like a new born giraffe as they giggle, twirling past windows and couches, to notice the way Red watches her. She doesn’t see the way Red’s eyes positively _fill_ with pure _euphoria_ , the bemusement painted across his features, as if he can’t quite believe that she is her, with him, smiling into the soft cotton of his shirt as he pulls her closer.

They’re out of breath, cheeks pink with exertion, with _life_. Liz is partially collapsed, Red’s arms firm and snug around her waist preventing her from tumbling to the floor in mirth, her breath short as she laughs, gripping his forearms, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

“Lizzie,” he chuckles, speaking into her hair, “Lizzie, look at me.”

And she does, with glittering eyes and a gasp of humour, she looks up and meets his gaze. He looks beautiful like this, inches away and _happy_.

The fire crackles, the wind blows.

“Tell me once more.”

There is no question what he means, she can feel it burning around them, as if string is entwined around their hearts, their _souls_ , tugging them into orbit, _closer and closer_. His tongue darts between his lips, before pulling into a smile, nothing _shocked_ or bewildered about his expression, nothing uncertain.

Elizabeth Keen looks at Raymond Reddington and he _believes her_.

“I love you.”

A surprised laugh and he falls silent once more, _beaming_ , fingertips skating across the exposed skin of her back, forearms flexing as he makes her stumble forward. It is with great strength she resists the urge to roll her eyes, to smack him against his chest, to be selfish in this moment as humour bubbles into her bloodstream. He looks like a young boy, full of wonderment.

“ _Red_ ,” she almost laughs, pointedly.

It’s as if he suddenly comes back to himself, and that laughter she could see building, sparkling in his eyes and tumbling from his throat, it spills forth around them. That is, until, he is tugging her forwards, pressing his lips to hers almost desperately, and she can feel as he smiles, the clash of their teeth as she can’t contain her own.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, and all Lizzie can taste is _joy_. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the read! Please let me know what you think! I haven't actually seen Episode 12, so please forgive any inaccuracies, I'm working purely off of the help of my pal, Gregwillray, and all the incredible gifsets that have been made! Thanks again for reading!


End file.
